The pressure building in my chest,
Pain that I cant put to rest.
I want to scream this isn’t fair,
I scratch my arm, the skin wont tear.
The pressure grows; I'm gunna burst...
Unless I can release it first.
I stumble for the bathroom door,
I trip, and crumple to the floor.
I look up, through the haze of tears,
I see my target, and worst of fears.
But I reach and grab it nonetheless,
A razor, nice and clean and fresh.
The razors cheap, so blades break lose.
A sharpened blade for me to use.
My skin that at first wouldn’t break,
Is left torn and bleeding in its wake.
The pressure ebbs out through my vain,
Until the cuts rid me of my pain.
Some turn to drugs, and others drink,
But I can clean my medicine in the sink,
So I can use it next I need,
To ease the pain, that need to bleed.
Few others truly understand,
And many just cant comprehend.
No, I'm not proud, but I won’t stop.
Until my spirits cease to drop.
So please don’t judge, and please don’t hate,
Unless you can make it go away.
That’s all I want,
That’s all I crave,
Is to rid myself,
And start a new day.

The rush
The motion
The perfect clarity.
When everything comes together.
It’s more than you will ever know,
You sing the words,
You tap your feet.
But I make it complete.
The familiar burning in my arms,
The aching in my feet,
I hear the notes,
I know the words,
And then,
I make the beat.
I nod my head,
I thrash my arms,
A mystic dance with every limb.
The amazing rumble in my gut,
That’s goes unnoticed by them.
I am the drummer
Through and through,
You’ll never get the things I do,
Oh singer with your voice so clear,
My singer and my friend,
I know I'm gone,
But I’ll return,
Not for my house, or clothes, or friends,
But to be apart of my favorite band.

Some of us write to feel the pain,
Some to let it go.
Some write just because it rhymes,
Others just don’t know.
Nature and its beauty,
A graveyard with its ghost.
A dream of futures happy,
Passion is in most.
A poem that's so delicate
Words straight from a heart.
Only from a dreamer's soul,
Their words a work of art.
A poem is a gateway,
That leads into the mind,
A passage that is hard to reach,
And double hard to find.
But you can find it if you look
Into some troubled eyes,
You never know what each word means,
My lines are held-in cries.
But others could be just to say
"Hello", "Have a great day"
It just depends who’s writing,
And who might come their way.